Poetry

The Bunkhouse Diplomat and others

As a boy, in the Depression, my favourite place to be in my father's small float camp, was the bunkhouse. I would sit on a logger's bunk for hours and listen to the stories of those generally lonesome men.

There was always a bunkhouse diplomat in camp. He was the newspaper of the day and the T.V of the evening.. He knew everything – at least listening to him you thought he did. I'd like to tell you about him, for he's part of the lore of the logger.

 

The Bunkhouse Diplomat

He was my friends – a logger
A hemlock 'ristocrat,
And the boys in the camp all knew him
As the bunkhouse diplomat.

'twas long before a Webster
Or a Fotheringfellow too –
The diplomat he knew it all
And he'd tell you who was who.

He was a walking 'cyclopedia
Of pure BS and fact
And he told the boss each morning
Jjst what his outfit lacked.

The bunkhouse walls would echo
With the diplomat's advice,
From how to run the country
to love at any price.

He was a product of the thirties
As he spun his tales with ease,
A philosopher from hard times
Was this bunkhouse Socrates.

If he reached down through the years
And could speak to us today,
I can hear the gems a fallin'
Maybe this is what he'd say.

"You tell me times are poorly
And the market's let you down
Two by fours ain't sellin'
Things are tough all over town

Well don't get too discouraged
Take this diplomat's advice,
Just grab a couple deep breaths
Before you ask the price.

Keep cool and calm – collected,
Don't let the juices flow,
Thank heaven that you're healthy
Don't let the uglies show.

You know it's great when things are up
And Hell when they are down
But you'll get old before your time
With wrinkles and a frown.

Don't panic, tough it out
Look up and smile instead"
So spoke the bunkhouse diplomat
"There's a rainbow up ahead."

 

A Passage to Cumshewa

Would you recall the time my friends,
When a fleet of ships
Sailed forth,
From docksides of this harbour
To the logging camps up north?

Their names are etched in maritime
For they opened up
Our coast
The Venture, John, Cattala
And Maquinna
Now a ghost.

It was an era in our past
And the captain's word
Was law.
As the ships sailed up and down
Our shores
From here to Cumshewa.

They whistles up the inlets
And they pounded
Charlotte straight.
They cautioned by
Old Ripple Rock
As they hauled the logger's freight.

Steam donkey tubes for Menzies Bay
And Minstrel Island's
Beer,
Choker hooks for Englewood
Enough to last
All year.

For Port Clements – a cookhouse stove.
They piled by night
And day.
A box of booze and lots of snuff
For the boys at
Swanson Bay.

Oh God – the weather could get tough
As the winter gales
Did thaw,
And the Valiant John on Hecate
Searched for
The hole called Cumshewa.

Vancouver to Port hardy
Was thirteen-fifty
First.
But 2nd class was just
Eight bucks
In a glory hole you cursed.

There were two types of people
Who traveled on the coast
They called one kind
The passenger
But of loggers, there was most.

The daily papers would announce
The Cardenna is
In port,
With forty-seven passengers
And loggers
By the quart.
Yes, they whistled up the inlets
When the fog was
Black around.
And they steered a course
For Rupert
Cross the seas of Millbanke Sound

A mighty fleet of ships they were
On a coastline rich
With trees.
They carried logger
Everywhere
Through calm and mighty seas.

So drink a toast now gentlemen
To those ships –
A last Hurrah,
And the logger who shipped
On them
From here to Cumshewa.

 

Here's One For The Host

High riggers all
At this sumptuous ball
I's like to propose a toast.
Here's to the man
And his ring-a-ding clan
-Here's on for the host.

Sixteen it's been
And he's still just as keen
As he maestros this elegant roast.
Our forest's his theme
At his total supreme.
Here's one for the Host.

He heads a great crew
Dedicated to you.
"it's a pleasure" – that is their boast.
So to Eric and Cy
Here's mud in your eye
And here's one for the host.

'Tis the event of the year
All the woodsy crowds here
They jet in from either coast.
It's a black tie affair
With a Hemmingstaff flare.
Here's one for the host.

It's unique- it's a whiz
It's like hemlock showbiz.
For Hilton and C.N – a toast
Even Webster's delighted
(is it true he'll be knighted?)
Well – here's one for the host.

Head table – et al,
Have come to this ball
Dressed up like an old Macbeth ghost
If their speeches sound screeches
It's because of the breeches
Ooh – here's one for the host.

From newsprint to shakes,
Tree product – all makes
He Zigfields our livelihood most.
He's a P.R. man's dream
And he's on our team
Hey – here's one for the host.

All sixteen were great
It's been an overflow plate.
Nothing like it from coast to coast.
So everyone here
Raise their glass for a cheer
Here's one for the host.

"keep out of the bight"
Bill Moore